Mirrors

I was warned
But took no precautions
 
And now I am my father
Having shrunk to fit,
At long last,
His shaven image
Presented in every
Impossibly shaped mirror
And yellowing photograph
In this house.
 
It’s not a comfortable fit,
A little baggy around
The waist and chin,
The attitude not quite right,
The silences too long;
But, close enough
To frighten the children.
 
I look across at my son
Shaping up in the next mirror,
“What next ?” he mouths.
 

Graham Hennin

If you have any comments on this poem, Graham Hennin would be pleased to hear from you.

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